


Faust, Part I.

by dicyfer



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: ? - Freeform, Boats, Dialogue, Gen, Hannibal (TV) Season/Series 04, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Slow Burn, Vignette, alana off-screen, devil's bargain, goth philosophy hour, inspired by cast reunion, pretentious faust metaphors, sailing to cuba
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:35:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25313923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dicyfer/pseuds/dicyfer
Summary: After the Fall, Hannibal still has promises to keep.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Kudos: 16





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there kids. Do people still use the word drabble? It sure has been a while. Like everyone, Hannibal on netflix triggered a much-needed rewatch, and I was compelled to do a deep dive into some deliciously unreal dialogue. I do have ideas for where this could go, although I have never in my entire life finished a story, so consider every scene a vignette that could be the last.

“I always keep my promises, Will.”

“No, no. Not this one.”

Hannibal pauses, fixing Will in his unfathomable gaze, eyes a black liquid. “A debt must be paid. How much do you recon her life is worth?”

Will stares back at him, face blank. Before he can answer, Hannibal continues.

“Please, don’t be so pedestrian as to suggest yours or mine. I think though, an alternate arrangement might suffice.”

“If you touch her—or, or Margot, or their son, I will never forgive you.”

“Did you forgive me after Abigail?”

“…”

“Though of course, all of that could have been avoided if you had kept your promise.”

Will takes in a shaky breath, steals himself, a man preparing to convince himself as much as anyone else in the room. “I… am not… responsible. For Abigail’s death.”

“No, but you were responsible for her life. Are you responsible for Alana’s life?”

“Yes.”

“She doesn’t seem to concern herself much with yours these days.”

Will brings a hand to his face, drags it down his skin and pulling the scars taught before releasing himself with an uncertain exhale. “She… has a family. I have—h-had, mine. In the end, our only bond was blood and violence. It was better that we kept our distance.”

Hannibal looks thoughtful. “Blood and violence,” he repeats. “And me.” 

Will stares at him. “That was the implication.”

“You didn’t ask about my proposal.”

“Sorry?”

“An alternate arrangement.”

Will raises an eyebrow. “You don’t think you’re taking this Mephistopheles shtick a little too far now?” It is meant to be sarcastic, but he is unable to evacuate his voice of emotion in time, and it comes out sounding desperate. They both notice.

Hannibal smiles, the kind that somehow shows all his teeth even when his lips never part. “Faust yearned for the knowledge his dusty books could never provide. We meet him at the edge of crisis: his classroom disgusts him, language itself has failed him. Despairing the limits of his knowledge, he summons the devil himself to teach him what can only be learned through participation.”

Now Will laughs, though it is without humor. “I guess I was always worried I was actually Margaret.”

Hannibal offers a small smile in return. “You are no vestal maiden, Will. And you have not been defiled.”

Will pauses. “…Haven’t I?” His voice is small, almost a whisper.

Hannibal sighs, places a hand on Will’s shoulder. Will tenses beneath his iron grip, looks anywhere but at Hannibal’s face. “What’s your proposal,” Will asks after a moment.

Hannibal steps back, hand lingering just a moment too long before sliding away. 

“In due time, you will know.”

Will forces himself to bring his eyes back to Hannibal’s face, and sees nothing but pools of black in the curves of his skull.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It seems as though most of the criticism of Hannibal stems from it being "unrealistic." Why does it need to be? It takes place in a fantasy world, darker and more artful than ours. Therefore, if Will can sail across the Atlantic ocean in a tiny sail boat to find Hannibal in Italy, they can certainly get to Cuba, Coast Guard be damned. This is inspired in part by the conversations in the Hannibal cast reunion.

_The dog didn’t notice it when he first jumped in;  
but now the situation looks quite different;  
the devil cannot leave the house._

“What a remarkably useful skill,” Hannibal quips from his designated seat near the bow of the boat. He remains still, his hands folded elegantly atop his crossed legs, head turning only slightly as he watches Will dart from place to place, unfurling sails, crossing the slippery surfaces with practiced ease.

Will doesn’t acknowledge his words. Deep down he admits to himself that he is disappointed Hannibal has taken to the water so well. He was due a little schadenfreude and a sea-sick Hannibal would have done nicely. He had been surprised when Hannibal mentioned Cuba. Something about the warmth, not just of the weather but also of the people, didn’t fit into the icy cruelty he had come to associate with the man sitting nonchalantly at the bow of his boat. He tries for a moment to picture Hannibal in a Hawaiian shirt. The effect is grotesque. 

“So what’s next, we land and smoke a Havana cigar?” Will asks once the sails have picked up the wind and it is safe for a moment to step away.

Hannibal raises an eyebrow, the kind Will learned long ago means he thinks Will is being churlish. “I have no taste for that particular vice. Nor would you, if you had seen how it ruins the lungs.”

Will returns with his own raised eyebrow, the kind Hannibal had since learned means to please keep the cannibalism references to a minimum.

Hannibal continues. “Jack won’t stop searching. He knows you have a boat. It’ll likely be the first thing he looks for. Have you thought about the coast guard?”

“It won’t be easy,” Will admits. “It’s a registered boat and all Jack has to do is send over the info. And it’s not like we can just pull into the nearest dock and ask for a paint job. Once we’re near Florida, we should avoid the coast. Stick to open ocean.”

“I defer to your expertise,” Hannibal says with a nod of his head. For a moment their eyes meet, and it occurs to both of them that in this moment Will has more power over Hannibal than he ever has.

“Die Sache sieht jetzt anders aus. Der Teufel kann nicht aus dem Haus,“ Hannibal murmurs with the air of a quote.

Will gives him a questioning gaze, and Hannibal elaborates.

“It seems my mind is still with dear Faust and Mephisto, after our last conversation.”

Will chooses not to respond, instead turning to the navigation panel and making a show of checking their course. Hannibal for his part turns to the ocean opening up before them, gaze traveling farther it seemed than even the horizon.

After some time in silence, Will catches Hannibal’s distant gaze and asks, softly, “what do you see out there?”

Hannibal turns his head, as if suddenly being brought back to the boat, though his eyes don’t leave the horizon. “I see a dance. One as beautiful as it is deadly. Every wave is the product of an incalculable number of forces. The great danger, it seems, is to make an average of them, fooling oneself into thinking it all amounts to a flat surface in the end.”

“All it takes is one rogue wave,” Will finishes the thought.

“Precisely.”

“Is this… is it your first time on the open ocean?” Will finds he has trouble with the question. Normally it is Hannibal who can simply ask for the details of Will’s life, while Will is left to uncover the fragments of Hannibal’s past by hand, piece by bloody piece.

Hannibal is silent for a moment, considering his words. “I have sailed the Mediterranean, when I was a young man. However I admit I have largely forsaken the naval inclinations of my homeland.”  
  
Will takes this in, lining up the new information with the pieces he’d already gathered.

-

They are forced to take the sails in each night and anchor off the coast as they make their way south, since only Will is able to keep an eye on the wind and sails. Hannibal seems to never tire of conveying his admiration of Will’s skill, watching his hands deftly maneuver ropes and canvas and tie exquisite knots with ease. 

The cabin is pitifully small, containing two “beds,” though one is technically a life-raft storage box, and the other is a somewhat more generously-sized folding dining table. Will takes the box without argument, not bothering to interrogate for himself why he simply can’t imagine a scenario in which Hannibal wouldn’t get the larger bed. Hannibal doesn’t comment on it either.

The cabin rocks gently, and sometimes not so gently, throughout the night. Will lays as flat as he can, willing himself to sleep while keeping his eyes wide open in the darkness. This seems to be the wrong choice. His open eyes begin to see what isn’t there. Shapes forming out of the darkness, the scent of blood rising from the deck. It takes no effort of the imagination to see their small little boat as a floating coffin, surrounded by an ocean of blood. So much blood that there are waves of it. Waves birthed long ago, from some subterranean movement, or a distant volcanic eruption, and only now does the energy of that force hit the fiberglass hull, with nothing but a dull thud to show for its journey. A great violence snuffed out by this simple obstruction.

Will thinks about his house in Wolf Trap, the one he abandoned the minute he met Molly. He was so eager to leave the memories behind, convinced himself if he played house long enough it would no longer be just a role. He should’ve known his nightmares would always find a way to materialize.

That house though had always been a source of stability. The distant island that was also lighthouse and ship. Something to navigate by when he was adrift in the dark, or a refuge to swim to desperately, knowing a bit of warmth was waiting for him. The friendly greetings of his dogs, content to rescue and never ask questions about why he’d fallen overboard in the first place.

Hannibal makes a movement in the dark across from him in the cabin. A sigh, intimate and forbidden. Suddenly Will feels caged. The boat had always meant freedom to him but now it is indeed a floating coffin. He hadn’t intended for them to die when he’d pushed them over the cliff, but he’d hoped it would happen. When they resurfaced, injured and bleeding but alive, he’d felt only a small pang of disappointment. Now though, he wonders if he shouldn’t just scuttle the whole boat right there.

He lets himself fantasize about it. Imagines locking the cabin door, rigging the main mast so that the wrong gust of wind would snap it in two, letting the weight of the torn sails tangle with the anchor until the boat lists dangerously. The water would first trickle into the cabin, and then it would begin to roar. Would Hannibal struggle? No, of course not. He would fix Will in his gaze and see him for what he was: a murderer. And maybe then the water would finally take them.


End file.
